The most important thing was to get the book
published.
Proof that I was a writer.
Was I a good one?
The critics, or at least my carefully networked reviewers,
fellow ‘poets’ –
they said I was.
But I scratched backs
and turned in favours.
Proof was in the sales.
Did anyone buy the book?
Not sure,
and to be frank
I didn’t care
for I was now considered a writer.
Poems came too naturally -
running from my pores,
slopping on to the page,
and yeah,
I didn’t always think about what I wrote down.
Why think when I could write?
I was unashamedly proud
of my compositions.
Suburban misadventures,
characters I had created,
who represented myself, and the people
I once knew.
